by Austin Chant
But Hook slid aside instead of taking the blow and Peter rushed past him, tumbling into the wall. Peter turned in time to see Hook—eyes burning, face twisted with effort—swinging for him again. Peter ducked, and Hook's claw rang off the wall, showering him with broken stone.
For several desperate moments he was fleeing, nearly suspended on the tip of Hook's blade as the captain forced him back, each piercing thrust of his sword almost reaching Peter's belly.
Then Peter tripped, and the wind caught him, and he billowed into the air like a sail catching the breeze and kicked the sword from Hook's hand. He was about to press his advantage, to drive his blade through Hook's chest, when Nibs screamed: "Look out!"
The pool's surface erupted. Two long, gray tentacles shot out from water in a spray, then came down on the floor with a sickening slap. The tentacles rippled with alien muscle as they hauled the rest of the kraken from the depths.
It had a bulging, scaly head and mottled gray skin, eyes that jutted up out of its face like those of an octopus. It smelled of carrion and seaweed, and as it rose over the pool, it stretched open a bloody mouth filled with icicle teeth. The maw was large enough to fit a man inside, end to end. By the looks of the scraps hanging from its teeth, it had just finished eating Samuel.
It screeched, an ear-splitting keening sound that made the cavern shake and Peter clap his hands over his ears. A wave of water washed over the cave floor as the kraken surged upwards, sending pirates and Lost Boys slipping and sprawling on the slick ground.
The kraken's hungry stare fixed on Ernest, who lay helpless in his own blood. The enormous jaws opened, the circle of jagged teeth spaced apart like gravestones and dripping red, and the kraken leaned down.
Peter flew across the room, dropping his knife and seizing Ernest's shirt in both hands, dragging him as he slid toward the entrance. The monstrous jaws snapped shut behind his feet, and Peter dropped Ernest beside Nibs and Tootles. "Get him out!" Peter screamed. "Run!"
Pirates shoved past them on their way out, not bothering with the Lost Boys. Peter turned to see the kraken snatch up a straggling pirate in one of its tentacles and drop him into its maw. Hook was running after Peter, his face twisted in a snarl. Peter grabbed a knife from Nibs's belt and leapt between the boys and Hook. Behind them both, the kraken dragged itself further from the water.
"It's coming for you, Captain," Peter yelled. "It's still hungry!"
Hook was pale with rage and terror. The Lost Boys disappeared down the passage and Peter stood in the entrance, unmoving as Hook sprinted the final distance. He didn't care if he got out as long as he stopped Hook from escaping.
Hook's sword was in his hand, and as he neared Peter, he swung. Peter parried, braced against the blade, shoved back. It was his strength against Hook's weakened arm; Hook fell away with a furious shout.
A shadow passed over his head. They both looked up to see the tentacle Peter had expected to seize Hook plunging down, instead, toward Peter.
He felt a hand grab the front of his shirt and yank him forward with such force as to send him sprawling—sprawling into Hook, who lost his balance and hit the floor beneath Peter. Where Peter had stood, the kraken's tentacle slammed into the rock, one of its coils shattering the entranceway and burying it in rubble.
Peter tried to rise, but Hook threw an arm over the back of his neck and dragged him back down.
"Together," he spat, "as always."
"Let go!"
"You think I'd let you escape and leave me?"
Peter threw himself into the air, dragging all of Hook's weight with him, narrowly in time to avoid being snagged by another enormous tentacle. He thrashed, but Hook wrapped an arm around his throat and clung to him as he hung in the air. The kraken turned its bulbous eyes toward them and reared higher out of the water, stretching open its awful mouth and screaming again. The cavern shook, dust and bits of rock falling from the ceiling.
Peter saw the ledge that led toward the remaining exit tunnel and flew toward it, straining under Hook's weight.
He clipped through the entrance just ahead of the kraken's suckered limb. He fell on the other side and was falling, head over heels down the slope as the tunnel collapsed behind them, Hook tumbling with him into the dark.
*~*~*
Peter lay stunned, blinking at the blackness that surrounded him, not knowing how long he had been unconscious. For a moment there was silence.
Then a bloodcurdling roar shook the ground beneath him, pebbles bouncing off Peter's head as they clattered farther down the tunnel. Peter heard a groan from nearby and forced himself up, fumbling at his belt for any weapon. He had nothing but his hands. Could he kill Hook with his hands?
He could try.
He scrambled toward Hook, only to be pitched over and sent sliding when another deep quake wracked the tunnel around them. He landed hard and rolled, unable to stop, battering his elbows and knees on the hard floor. He heard Hook falling over and over beside him before the tunnel finally spat them out. Peter hit the floor hard and it was a long moment before his spine stopped rattling.
"Hell's teeth," Hook moaned.
Peter dragged himself upright. He squinted into the darkness, trying to make out where Hook had fallen. All he could see was a sharp stalagmite jutting up to his left.
He grabbed the thin tip and snapped it off, leaving him with a spike several inches long and sharp as a needle.
He listened to Hook scuffling about. "Pan?" Hook asked warily. "Are you alive?"
Peter said nothing. He heard a muffled curse and then—with a soft huff of air—the ignition of a match. Flame burst from the end of a long, sturdy matchstick held in Hook's hand, throwing the cave into a sudden wash of light. Hook was still splayed on the ground.
He looked up, saw Peter standing there with the spike, and yelped.
The match went clattering away across the floor, firelight flaring, as Peter fell upon him. In answer to Hook's shout, the kraken gave another awful roar, this one more distant, and dust and bits of ceiling clattered down on Peter's head. But he barely noticed—he was busy trying to get the spike into Hook's throat while Hook grappled with him. Peter managed to clamber up Hook's chest and pin his shoulders with his knees, bearing down on him with all the weight of his body. He got the spike very near to Hook's throat but could not drive it in. Hook dug his nails into his wrist until his skin burned, and it took all Peter's will to keep gripping the spike. One hard push and Peter could kill him—but he couldn't do it.
The match was still lit, still clinging to life a few feet away, and with it Peter could see the piercing blue eyes staring up at him.
"Pan," Hook grunted. He did not look afraid. "Let me up, you fool. We can kill each other when we're out of here."
"I can kill you now," Peter snarled. He jerked forward and managed to scrape the point of the spike through the hair that grew along Hook's jaw. A line of blood pooled in his collarbone.
Hook drew a sharp breath. "You need my antidote."
"I'll take it when you're dead."
"I also carry more of that poison on my person. How will you tell the difference? Or will you drink one and pray your luck is good?" At Peter's hesitation, he tipped back his head, exposing his throat, and his grip on Peter's wrist slackened. "Go on, if you trust the coin toss."
Now there was nothing stopping Peter from driving the spike in, except that his body still wouldn't move. He could have done it in the heat of battle, but not when it was simply his choice. With Hook was staring at him, inviting him, Peter couldn't help imagining what would happen if he killed Hook. The blood, the silence, the shadows swallowing him up alone. He imagined how Hook's blue eyes would look if the life left them. He thought of Slightly's empty, dead stare and was suddenly nauseated.
He didn't want to kill someone again. Worse, he didn't want Hook to be dead. As the moments ticked by, he tried to convince himself that he did, but the idea broke over him in waves of increasing horror. He thought of Hook being gone th
e way Tink was, stripped out of the world, nowhere to be found.
That would be an empty world.
Hook looked as though he were getting a grim pleasure from this, watching Peter with such stark intensity that Peter wanted to look away. "I have a proposal," he said at Peter's continued silence. "You let me up, we find our way out of this cave, and then I give you the antidote."
"How do I know you won't try to kill me if I let you up?"
"Because only one of us can fly, and so it benefits me to keep you around."
Peter's instincts screamed for him to keep holding Hook down. But there was something in his instincts that Peter did not trust. His instincts had led him to fight Hook in the first place. His instincts had led to war; they had gotten Tink and Slightly killed. His instincts twisted toward destruction, and he didn't even want his worst enemy gone.
He didn't want Hook gone.
Peter stood mechanically, dropping the spike to the cave floor. Hook got carefully to his feet. He looked down at Peter, his face in shadow.
Then, quicker than Peter could follow, he stepped forward and hit Peter so hard he fell over.
It was like getting struck by a plank; Peter crumpled on the floor, stunned. It was a moment before he had the sense to respond to having been attacked, reaching for the spike. By then Hook had turned away, clearly disinterested in pressing his advantage. He bent and picked up the fallen match.
"That was for Samuel," he said.
And Peter, whose fingers had just touched the spike, stopped.
He wrapped his arms around his knees instead, staring at Hook's back. Hook lifted the match to chest height, surveying the cave. He didn't turn around.
"Did you care for him?" Peter asked. He didn't know why he wanted to know, or even if he did, only that the words left his mouth before he could consider them.
Hook chuckled. It was an odd, bitter sound. "I suppose I did," he said. "We were lovers."
Peter's mouth fell open. He found he had nothing he could say.
"Which way is out?" Hook asked.
When Peter didn't answer, he turned around. Peter pointed silently to the tunnel straight ahead of them, which had collapsed.
"Ah," Hook said. "Excellent."
Peter found his voice, though it came out faint. "There are other ways."
"Then lead us."
Peter got to his feet, wanting do something—anything—to apologize. But what could he say that would mean anything? I'm sorry, I didn't think he mattered?
And why should he feel sorry when Hook had killed Slightly first and been about to kill the others? He was angry with himself for feeling sick, for not being able to stop.
"This way," he said.
Seven
"Pan," Hook said. "Do you know where you're going?"
"Of course I do," Peter snapped.
But when he turned a corner and discovered the next twist in the route had collapsed, his mind went blank with panic. They had been walking for hours, discovering that passage after passage had caved in. The cavern Peter had once navigated so easily was almost unrecognizable.
Without thinking, he set a hand on the wall for support, and the darkness began to press in on him.
"Pan? What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing." Peter swung around and tried to take a step, but he slid to the floor instead, his pulse pounding in his ears. How long had it been since Tink's sacrifice? Twelve hours? Eighteen? He hadn't counted.
Hook tsked. "Where's that fairy of yours? She ought to give you another dose of pixie dust to keep you going."
Peter swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. "She's dead," he said shortly. "She used the last of her magic to stop the poison from spreading. To give me time to find the antidote."
Hook sat across from him. It was a strange, abrupt movement, as if a weight had come down on his shoulders.
Peter watched, frowning, as Hook fumbled a cigar from a pouch at his hip. He lit the cigar from his match and began to smoke, his brows drawn together.
"I didn't realize," Hook said at last. His voice had gone rough, like he was struggling to speak. "I'm sorry, Pan. I'm truly sorry."
"What do you care?"
"It may surprise you," Hook said, "but I considered her… a very good friend."
Peter blinked. "What?"
"Once we'd settled our differences over you, we got on quite well." Hook shot Peter a flat smile. "She always cared for you beyond reason. I should have known she'd protect you to the last."
If Peter hadn't known him better, he'd have thought Hook looked miserable. It was like looking in a mirror, and he didn't know what to make of seeing his own grief in the face of his enemy.
"How… how did you know her?"
"Through you, obviously." Hook picked at the label on his cigar. "She protected the Lost Boys after you left—keeping them alive in your honor, I suppose. She asked me to leave them alone, to let them wander about in peace. Of course, I didn't need much convincing. Without you, they were puppets with cut strings. I didn't have the heart to kill them."
Peter shifted uncomfortably. He didn't think of Hook as having that sort of honor.
"In any case, when she came to negotiate, we wound up talking for hours. Complaining about you, mostly. You were always the worst thorn in both our sides."
"Hey," Peter said, but it was halfhearted.
"She was a better card player than anyone in my crew," Hook said, "and made far more interesting conversation." He let out a shaky breath. "Damnation. Between the two of us, we've made quite a mess."
Cold was starting to seep into Peter's back from the cavern wall. He leaned forward, burying his face in his knees.
"Neverland's different," he mumbled. "It's not like it was when I was a boy. It's not—fun anymore."
"That's the trick of growing up. Nothing stays the same." Hook sounded oddly sympathetic. "You see the faults in everything. Including yourself."
Peter scrubbed at his eyes, thinking of how he had seen himself reflected in the Lost Boys' faces when they had betrayed him. They had been so afraid of him.
"I, for one, appreciate that you've become at least a little less whimsical," Hook said, in a lighter tone. "I don't know how I should have dealt with you if you came back still a child. All that nonsense about being the boy who couldn't grow up—I suppose that was just a joke of yours? Thank heavens."
Peter lifted his head to scowl at him. To his surprise, Hook smiled wearily back, smoke blooming from between his lips.
"I suppose you never gave any thought to the adults who had to deal with your games," he said. "Imagine having a well-cultivated pirate crew and an established career as the terror of the seas, only to have some bloody ten-year-old show up claiming he's the spirit of youth and joy and your unholy nemesis. Oh, and he's rallied a bunch of other little boys to come and kill you."
"Serves you right for being a pirate," Peter said.
"I was never so much a pirate as when you started insisting we were mortal enemies," Hook said. "Before that, I hardly ever thought of myself as a villain. I was barely vicious."
"Oh, so it's my fault you're awful."
"I'm only saying that the story seemed to demand it, and I suspect it was your story." Hook sighed, settling against the cave wall. His voice grew stronger as he went on; talking seemed to comfort him. "It used to be my story, you know, when I was a boy and I had Neverland to myself. But then you came along, and you were so ruthless and insistent, before I knew it you'd snatched the narrative away from me. You claimed—you insisted—that it was you who cut off my hand, when it was perfectly clear that I had not had the hand well before you arrived. You then told me you had fed the hand to a crocodile who would follow me to the ends of the earth, and lo and behold, such a crocodile appeared and hunted me until its death. The very world here bends for the sake of your stories, Pan. I see no reason why I, a mere man, should not."
That was not at all how Peter remembered it—but he also could not remember cutti
ng off Hook's hand. He swallowed, sure that Hook was lying.
"You're the one who followed me up the mountain," he said. "You tried to feed me to the crocodiles. You killed Slightly. I didn't make you do any of that."
"I'll admit it was a collaborative effort," Hook said. "But you wanted a war."
That it was so unfair it set Peter's teeth on edge. "I didn't want Tink to die," he snapped. "I didn't want anyone to get really hurt."
"Or you didn't want it to be your responsibility," Hook said. "You didn't want it to be anyone you cared about. You wanted me to be at fault for every unpleasant part of it, while you played the bereaved hero seeking revenge for his losses, is that right?"
Peter opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, so incensed he could hardly speak. The worst part was that it was true. The truth of it punctured his anger like a pin in a balloon, and the tide of disgust and rage he'd directed at Hook turned grimly back toward himself.
"For what it's worth, I don't blame you." Hook chuckled around his cigar. "It would be difficult to be you without an opponent, wouldn't it?"
"But I didn't want anyone to die," Peter said, his throat tight. "I didn't."
"You killed my pirates," Hook said. "Don't tell me they provoked you."
Peter remembered with a flash of guilt how eagerly he had attacked Hook's helpless men on the shore. It had felt so innocent then, like playing with dolls. Looking back, he felt sick. "I didn't want to," he repeated. "I thought I did, but I wish I hadn't. I wish they were all still here, even if we were fighting. Slightly—Samuel—Tink—"
His throat closed around her name and tears stung the corners of his eyes, and he was too miserable to be ashamed of crying in front of Hook.
There was a long quiet. Then Hook said almost gently, "Cheer up, Pan. We'll plant their ashes and grow a new crop, and next time you can do things differently."
"What—what are you talking about?"
"You'll imagine yourself a few new orphans from Kensington and I'll pick up a few new rogues off a shipwreck, and between us we'll have two armies worth pitting against each other again… or leaving to their own devices while we keep the war between us. Whatever you like."
